Chapter XIII: Part 13

“Not altogether for that, though the respects will be included.”

“Newspaper woman! eh?”

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Grant wants to be written up in the newspapers. She ain’t that kind of a woman.”

“I beg your pardon, General! I shall take no advantages of Mrs. Grant’s courtesy or kindness, but the people will wish to know something of the ‘lady of the White House,’ and how can I make up one of the ‘pictures’ unless I am permitted to dip my pen at the fountain head?”

“Can’t you see her at her receptions? I think she sees ladies Saturday afternoons.”

“I never describe dress. I want to tell the people something about the woman inside the clothes.”

“I shall have to turn you over to General Badeau!”

At this moment a bell was touched and a lackey, minus the military buttons, appeared.

“Show this lady to General Badeau’s room.”

Over the tufted carpet, through vestibule and broad hall, until the right door was reached. A smart knock, which was answered by “Come in!”

The man with the military buttons looked up from the mass of papers at which he appeared to be at work, and the servant at my side simply said:

“I am requested by General Dent to show this lady to your room.” The servant immediately disappeared through the open door. General Badeau glanced at the writer from head to foot, his eyes instantly reverted to the papers, and his mouth, which had never opened, seemed fastened like those of the sphinx. The situation to the writer became extremely painful, not knowing whether to retreat or advance; but in an instant it was decided to stand firm without flinching a muscle, and await the enemy’s fire. At this moment General Badeau’s assistant kindly inquired if the lady would “have a seat?” The seat was occupied and the foreign sphinx kept at work on his papers. In the meantime the photograph of this foreigner was burned into the writer’s brain. Short and thick set, with the animal neck of a gladiator squatted upon his square shoulders, every visible point about the man indicating his peasant origin, the grim, gray complexion, the small, dead, steel-blue eye and neutral color of hair, a nose which had just escaped a hook, and a mouth which nature denied lips, but left it an ugly slit in the face, like a wound which could not be made to heal.

The embarrassment became almost unendurable, the silence horrible, but the writer sat with folded hands “determined to fight it out on that line if it took all summer.” As a cannon swings on the gun-carriage, the bore of this military arrangement was brought to bear upon the countenance of the writer.

“Did you wish to speak to me?”

“No, sir; I came to the White House to see Mrs. Grant. General Dent has consigned me to your care. What are you going to do with me?”

“You wish to see Mrs. Grant? That is not so easy a matter. Would you allow me to know the nature of your business? We do not allow Mrs. Grant to be subjected to annoyance.”

“I have not the slightest intention to annoy Mrs. Grant. I have no favors to ask, or axes to grind. I should never have ventured over the threshold of the White House had I understood military law. I was accustomed to meet Andy Johnson as though he were still an unpretending citizen of the Republic; and Mrs. Patterson allows the intimacy of a personal friend.”

“What shall I call your name?”

A card was handed the General and he read aloud “Mrs. Emily Briggs.”

“Allow me to say a word,” said General Badeau’s assistant. “If I am not mistaken, I think this is ‘Olivia,’ correspondent of the Philadelphia _Press_ and other prominent newspapers.”

The writer bowed in simple recognition. The General raised his eyebrows with another supercilious glance at the writer’s person, and without the slightest notice of the interruption simply answered, “In that case I shall have to turn you over to General Porter.”

Some more footfalls over the tufted floors and the office of General Porter was reached, but the change was like that of the living skeleton into the fat woman and mud into polished marble; of charcoal into diamonds.

General Porter was standing in the council chamber which leads to the room where the immortal eye sees the invisible throne. It is the executive headquarters; where may be found during business hours the American citizen who sways the sceptre over all that is superbly important on the Western Continent. General Porter stood, the central figure of a group of young officers, all handsome enough for a tableau scene in a church charitable performance, with a grace of manner which seemed meant purposely to obliterate the remembrance of the ferocity of former experience. General Porter inquired how could he serve the lady “who had honored him with a call?” The business made known, “Certainly,” said General Porter, “I feel at liberty to say that Mrs. Grant will be pleased to see you. Possibly she may not be engaged at present.” A messenger was despatched and soon returned with an answer. “I must show you the way myself,” said General Porter, “and if you have not met Mrs. Grant I must introduce you myself.”

And this “open sesame” was never changed during the eight years that General Grant occupied the White House. Owing to some difficulty with her eyes, Mrs. Grant was obliged to have a private secretary attend to her letters and assist her in any work which would be impaired by defective vision, and having married into the army a soldier secretary was preferred to one of her own sex, who might in the beginning prove to be a perfectly seaworthy vessel, but after all, without any warning, spring a leak.

During these days a gentleman in New York made up his mind that he would publish a book with the high-sounding title, “The Ladies of the White House from Washington to Grant.” The writer was sent a communication, asking for a paper on these subjects to contain personal reminiscences, etc. Under this stimulant the author of the forthcoming papers called upon General Dent to make inquiry about the early life of his sister. On his recollections the incidents were put together, but before they were mailed Mrs. Grant’s presence was sought, the manuscript spread out for reading and correction. Mrs. Grant listened with a most amused expression on her face. At the conclusion she remarked, “Did brother Fred tell you all that?”

“He did, Mrs. Grant?”

“Then brother Fred does not know me! Let me tell you about Fred. You know I am a Southern woman, was born and brought up on a plantation. Our brothers were much older than we three sisters, and as soon as they were old enough father sent them away to school. We had a governess at home. Our mother directed our education, took a deep interest in everything we learned, just as I believe every mother should who has daughters. When the boys used to come home at vacations we used to hide our dolls and playthings, for the boys would break them up. Brother Fred finished his education at a military school, and was sent away to the frontier on duty, and has had such a hard life that I prevailed on Mr. Grant to let him come and be near father and the rest of us for a little time. Father will not be with us but a few days longer. Now, don’t send that manuscript away, because it is not my true life. This brother knew nothing about me the years when he was away.”

The book was never published, possibly because some of the papers never reached New York.

After Eugenie was deposed from the throne of fashion as well as that of the empire of France, _The Press_ requested that the writer should ascertain where the ladies of the capital would look for future models. The subject was one of interest, because Madame Demorest was trying to set up the golden calf in the great emporium of New York.

“I think,” said Mrs. Grant, “that the American ladies are capable of inventing their own fashions. How this is to be brought about I don’t exactly know, but I am quite sure I shall never set the fashions. Mr. Grant is a poor man. Ask the ladies of the Cabinet. Mrs. Fish has remarkable good sense.”

Another time the writer had heard Mrs. Grant lament her inability to use the eight sewing machines which had been sent from different sources to the White House; what to do with all the patchwork quilts wrought by humble hands.

“I do not feel it is right to give them away, but where can they be stored? Only last week Mr. Grant had a leather picture sent all the way from Oregon. Senator Williams presented it in person. There is no place for it on the walls. I am sure I never saw a leather picture before. To keep it from being harmed I have had to put it under the bed.”

A very warm friendship existed between Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Wilson, the wife of the Senator of that name from Massachusetts. Mrs. Wilson was one of the noblest and most angelic of characters. A soldier who had been one of the staff officers of General Banks had excited her deepest sympathy. He had been dangerously wounded in five different battles and his case was on record in the surgeon-general’s office as a marvel that under the circumstances the man could exist. Mrs. Wilson took his case in hand for advancement in some direction and reported the case to Mrs. Grant.

“There is nothing I would not do to help the soldier,” said the President’s wife, “if it lay within my power, if my word or my efforts would effect it, but I made a resolution that no circumstance should arise which would induce me to ask Mr. Grant for an office. Isn’t Mr. Wilson one of the pillars of the Senate? Mr. Grant is worried all day. There must be one place where he can have quiet.”

This last incident the writer relates as written down from the lips of the late Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson said at the time: “Mrs. Grant is right, and I mean to let Henry alone after this.”

When the only daughter (Miss Nellie) attended school like other young girls of a dozen years of age, the afternoon came and her lesson was unlearned. The carriage came to the door for the incipient young lady, but the teacher dismissed it with the request that it should return at the end of a half hour. The half hour came and glided away with the lesson still unlearned. The carriage came again and was dismissed. At the end of the second half hour the lesson was committed, and Miss Nellie was permitted to go. The next day at the usual hour the young lady arrived, accompanied by her mother. The teacher began to fear she had lost her most cherished pupil, but Mrs. Grant came to thank her for performing her duty.

“Teach her,” said Mrs. Grant, “that she is only plain, simple Nellie Grant, subject to the same rules which govern all the scholars. This course will have my sincere approbation.”

Through the wife of Rev. J. P. Newman, the pastor of the church which the General and Mrs. Grant loved so well, the writer learned of the unostentatious charity, the benevolent deeds which this pure-minded woman has kept from the world. Mrs. Newman said: “This material should be used after Mrs. Grant has gone, when loving friends can speak of these truths without wounding her delicacy.” But how can a paper be made up for publication of Mrs. Grant’s life in the White House and leave out the key to one of the most perfect and lovely of womanly characters. From the historic days of Martha Washington no woman called to this highest social position has wielded the sceptre with more dignity, good sense and grace. Amidst the clashings of the female cabinet, which in every sense of the word has as much significance as its counterpart, as the result is often the loss of an official head, Mrs. Grant was as serene as Victoria on her throne--not sustained by birth and traditionary precedent, but upheld by the noble qualities which makes the American woman in her highest perfection the peer and often the superior of every reigning queen on the earth’s surface.

OLIVIA.

THE GREAT REAPER.

GATHERS A NUMBER OF THE BEAUX AND BELLES.

WASHINGTON, _December 31, 1876_.

Within the space of three brief years society at the capital has entirely changed in tone and character. The great drawing-rooms that were thrown open to receive guests from all parts of the civilized world are now closed forever, whilst a new set of people are pressing forward to blaze in the social sky as stars of the first magnitude. Glancing at the banquet halls, deserted, one sees with astonishment the path cut by the reaper Death. It requires no stretch of the imagination to call to mind the grand old home of the “West End” so long occupied by Admiral and Mrs. Powell (the latter lately deceased), where all that was most cultivated and refined in what is known as “Washington society” gathered to do honor to this late American queen. Mrs. Powell was the peer of Dolly Madison, the bosom friend of Mrs. Polk and Mrs. Tyler, and her remarkable vivacity and piquant wit lost none of its charm in advancing years. This made her old age just as attractive to youth as to people in the full bloom of life. So it may be truthfully said that this society belle never saw her scepter waning. It is true that only the ladies connected with the Army and Navy have the opportunity to officially perpetuate their reign. Our Republican court is so constructed that no matter how much a woman’s success may prove to be, like her husband, she must “step down and out,” sacrificed on the guillotine of “rotation in office.”

The closing of the Steele mansion, which became for a great many years the “headquarters” of elegant hospitality, was caused by the death of both Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Steele within ten days of each other.

Mrs. Wise, the daughter of Edward Everett, made her home most attractive to the elite of the capital, for, in addition to inheriting to a large degree much of the talent enjoyed by her gifted father, a long residence abroad had given her the advantage of every social acquirement. But she, too, has joined the “innumerable throng.”

Capt. Carlisle Patterson, late head of the Coast Survey, was a gentleman whose hospitality was boundless, so much so that his fortune at his death was found to have melted away. But whilst he lived what a grand good time he had.

The Myer mansion, for so many years occupied by the English legation, but purchased by the late head of the Signal Bureau, was closed by the last summons of its master. During his life this fairy dwelling, with its works of art, was thrown open and enjoyed by those who feel they “ne’er shall look upon its like again.” No doubt finer houses will be built, and the Bonanza kings will import the ancient ruins of Greece and Rome, but every year our receptions are growing colder, and our “drawing rooms” resemble those held in the monarchical palaces of the Old World.

Coming back to the closed habitations, the homes of Justices Hunt and Swayne pass before the mind’s eye--the first closed by affliction, the latter by death. And long will linger in the minds of our old residents the unostentatious hospitality of the late George W. Riggs, banker, and whose “business house” was felt to be the safest in Washington, though avaricious. Mr. Riggs was known to be clean-handed, and he inspired the public to believe that his bank was as solid as the foundation of the earth.

And who will forget the kingly hospitality of our late Mayor Wallach, so superbly assisted by his accomplished wife? The death of the ex-mayor, followed so soon by the death of Mrs. Wallach’s father, closes this mansion indefinitely.

Coming to the houses occupied by what is termed in Washington “official society,” deserted within the time specified, memory recalls the costly dwelling occupied and owned by the late Senator Chandler. “Old Zach,” as he was familiarly called, had no taste for society proper, but he had great respect for his wife’s feelings, and when she gave the order that he should stand in the proper place with his huge hands encased in white kid gloves and welcome the coming guest it was done with the same vim and audacity with which he would conduct a campaign. One grasp of his solid palm would put the visitor at ease, if the ardor could be made to last through the cooling process of passing the gauntlet of the handsome hostess. Mrs. Chandler conducted society matters on the Victoria plan, everything perfect, superb and grand, but the thermometers always indicated the freezing point, unless “dear old Zach” was around to warm matters up and infuse a little life and spirit.

Senator Carpenter, with all his faults--the mould was broken when he went away--on the floor of the Senate could be a statesman, but in society he had all the rollicking abandon of a school boy. Who can forget the charming Carpenter home, the little spinning-wheel in the parlor, at which sat the sole daughter of the house, with the flax slipping through her slender fingers? Ah, pretty tableaux! Gone, never to return!

Nailed to the stony turret of the celebrated Shepherd mansion floats the yellow flag of the Orient. Within its rocky battlements may be found that which represents in the highest sense Imperial China. The solid walls around this legation must remind the occupants of the famous one of their native country. It is very painful to those who have basked in the prodigality of the Shepherd hospitality to find them gone, and the magnificence usurped by Eastern pagans--one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of furniture, carpets and “silken hangings.” It would take the space of a column to describe this modern dwelling from cellar to turret, and leave out the terrapin, white grasses and champagne. “Boss Shepherd,” rather Alexander the Second, just now is in eclipse. We can afford to wait until “Batipolas” has been well stirred up, then the Shepherd will return to his flock, who, it is said, were once well sheared. But in the meantime our wool will grow, and if we must have a king give us one of the Shepherd kind.

From one of the most elegant and superbly furnished Washington homes the “Bryans” departed, to form new associations in far-off Colorado. At the Bryan fireside used to gather the most distinguished people known in science, literature and art. The only daughter of the house is one of Healy’s most promising pupils, and it is safe to say that Miss Bryan is the finest portrait painter of either sex of her own age in this country. This compliment is not paid her by the writer, who is unable to judge upon so important a point, but it is the decision of men who have studied art, both at home and abroad. The only son, a very young man, is already a successful lawyer, and serving his adopted State in her legislature. These instances are given to show that children reared at the capital amidst the surroundings of the most luxurious wealth need not necessarily be spoiled.

The closing of the “Kilbourne mansion” and the departure of the wife and two beautiful daughters to foreign lands, which happened in the interim, like the flitting of the Bryans, created a loss which has by no means been repaired. “The Kilbournes” have returned, but not to the classic home which grew stone by stone under the supervising eye of its late artistic mistress. Beneath its hospitable roof, evening after evening, were gathered the elite of the foreign legations, with members of the Army and Navy and others most distinguished in the world of literature and art. A landscape painter of no mean ability, and a writer such as would secure her a position on any of our leading newspapers, Mrs. Kilbourne made her elegant home the most attractive to journalists beyond any other at the national capital.

Whilst death has been so busy with our own people, the diplomatic circle has not been spared. Count Lita, the “society man” of the French legation, has passed away, and his place remains vacant. Count Lita owed his position to the relations which his sister-in-law sustains to the present King of Italy, the husband of the beautiful Queen Margharita. Instead of keeping quiet upon such a delicate point, it was a matter of great pride with the late count. It seems the sister-in-law looks after what might otherwise be an obscure and impoverished family. Whenever the newspaper correspondents have touched upon the theme “foreign legations,” we are reprimanded by the officials of the State Department and given to understand that these people are not a part of our body politic, but is that a reason why they should be permitted to be social slivers in our flesh? The late Russian minister, who got into debt at Newport, and then yelled for the Russian flag to protect him from his milk woman and the butter man, came to Washington and Mrs. Russian Minister asked why she was so neglected socially by American women. She was told that American ladies would not call upon the “lady of the White House” if it was public belief that she was living with the President without the marriage ceremony being performed. Mrs. Minister straightened up, saying, “I am illegitimate, my husband is illegitimate, our children are illegitimate. Now, what are you Americans going to do about it? Is it any of your business?” She was informed that American women would not accept the situation socially if the Czar should issue a ukase, so she gathered up her “illegitimates” and has disappeared, whilst the imperial dominion of the Czar at Washington is unbroken by woman’s voice, except the little pipers of the small attachés.

The late home of the Freyres, the Peruvian minister, was noted for its superb hospitality. The family was composed of Señor and Señorita Freyre and the four daughters; but it took eight cooks to provide for their wonderful table. Whilst six would be hard at work in the kitchen the other two would be scouring the markets of the capital to secure terrapin, reed-birds, canvasback and all other dainties for which this famous locality is noted. As a natural consequence, they grew so enormous in size that only two could occupy a carriage at a time, so it took three carriages, or a funeral procession, to land the family in church, and they were all such devoted Catholics that no religious rites were omitted. The very baby of the family weighed over three hundred pounds. But it happened, as it always will, that too many reed-birds brought this family to grief. Sickness seized the father and eldest daughter and both died within a very short time of each other. Whilst the father lay on his death-bed, he sent for an American lawyer who had once been a Cabinet minister of General Grant, to help him make his will. After devising ample fortunes to his wife and the four daughters, he began: “Five thousand Spanish dollars to my son Don Manuel;” five thousand to another, giving the name; five thousand to another, until eleven sons and daughters had been remembered. He then brought this astounding will to a close by saying, “These are not the children by my wife, but my children, by my God.” One of our citizens would probably have died under the same circumstances and bravely kept his lips closed to the last. So let us honor the sincerity and courage of the man. His widow has lost her vast fortune by the late turmoil in Peru and is now living very quietly in Florence, Italy.

Our last diplomatic scandal relates to Victoria’s new protégé, the English “envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary,” the Hon. Lionel Sackville-West. If he were not Victoria’s “Knight of the Garter,” it would not be so sad. Now it appears that when Lionel went to Spain as a young attaché he became desperately enamored with a ballet-dancer. “He loved not wisely, but too well.” The proud Sackville-Wests would have none of it. They declare to this day that Lionel is a bachelor Simon pure, and so he is inscribed on the awful book of the peerage. It is not understood whether the ballet-dancer has put on angel plumage, but it is known that she left a brood of little chick Sackville-Wests, which the Honorable Lionel is willing to gather under his wings as a hen doth her chickens. His eldest daughter is with him--his acknowledged child--and here lies all the trouble. If he would only ignore her, or wait, as the Peruvian minister did, till he hears the toot of the last trump, Victoria and “Washington society” would wink at his little “escapades.” But the British minister shows that he has a will of his own and a mind of his own, with the Prince of Wales to stand between him and his virtuous sovereign. The capital is becoming alive with men who manage to elude the snares of matrimony, whilst the foreign legations--words fail not because the source is exhausted, but newspaper articles must come to an end.

OLIVIA.

CLOSING SCENES IN THE HOUSE.

PEN PICTURES OF BLACKBURN, GARFIELD, RANDALL AND LESSER LIGHTS.

WASHINGTON, _March 4, 1879_.

Prematurely crushed before half its most important work was performed, the Forty-fifth Congress of the Republic has ceased to live. Its dying hours were marked with scenes of almost riotous confusion, reminding one of the exciting days of “secession times.” It is only when each great party has almost an equal number of combatants in Congress that a hand-to-hand battle takes place. To-day the men whose official career ends for the present in the House were the plumed leaders in the strife. In the advance were Foster, of Ohio; Hale, of Maine, and Durham, of Kentucky. To carry out the idea of death, flowers were strewn on the desks of departing members, and on the Speaker’s table uprose a pyramid of floral display. Not an inch of standing room was visible. Even the diplomatic gallery contained an unusual number of distinguished foreigners, whilst that part designated as the “members’ gallery” was crowded to overflowing by the acknowledged leaders of the social world of which politics make a part.

On a front seat in a central position sat Mrs. Hayes, conspicuous among the silks, satins, and jewels by the extreme simplicity of her attire, and lack of pretense of all that pertains to the aristocratic and exclusive. The black and shining bands of hair were drawn close and prim over the temples; the large gray eyes that warm or freeze according to the will of the possessor; the shapely nose above the cold, thin lips, finished with a chin indicating strong points of character.

Neither natural roses nor lilies bloomed in the members’ gallery. Pale, sallow, worn-out women came who proved to the lookers-on what a season of fashionable folly will do if permitted to have matters all its own way. But if real charms were lacking, the loss was fortunately replaced by wise manipulations of the artist. The “paint pots” so vividly pictured by the immortal Vicar of Wakefield had been brought into requisition, and Olivia and Sophie were as well prepared as ever for future triumph and conquest. The diplomatic gallery was graced by the Brazilian, Dutch and Belgian ministers, and by the pretty, modest daughters of Secretary Evarts, attended by some of the handsome officials of the Department of State. Asia was represented, half and half, in the person of Yung Wing, of China, and his American wife. What a strange pair? He is a genuine son of the land of Confucius, with his dark-yellow skin drawn smooth like parchment over his dome of thought; inky hair and eyes, and with all those strange hieroglyphic signs of mystery stamped on his sphinx-like face. Madame Yung Wing seemed to enjoy her novel position, as she leaned back enveloped in all that finery which her marital captivity enables her to wear. This mingling of the races, to the honor of American women let it be recorded, happens only in the extremes of our social system--among the very highest or lowest--the diamonds or the dirt.

The gallery to the right of the Speaker is a study for the artist. Every part of this broad land is represented. The Boston girl is there, with a voice that reminds you of the higher notes of Ole Bull’s supernatural violin. The most beautiful women of the continent spring from the land of the setting sun, descendants of the belles of the “blue grass region,” grown and ripened under the cool sun and peculiar atmosphere of Colorado and California. There they sit, mothers and daughters, as luscious to the eye as a basket of their own inimitable pears and transparent grapes. The women of the Sunny South were there. Slender, willowy creations, that remind you of Damascus blades. As full of passion as a fagot of wood with sticks, each one carries an invisible goad to prod the statesman if he even thinks of “compromise.” Stronger than ever are the women entrenched in the rulings of the House. Opposite the Speaker might have been seen Africa--reflected from the seats in all tints, from ebony to “Alderney cream.” Ever since the gallery doors were thrown open to this race the space is occupied. The cushioned seats have been removed, but day after day of the session sees the same row, as though the House were a great school in which the spectators are pupils. Few colored women are to be seen, and the crowd seemed made up of those who have no employment, but who go to Congress to bask in the artificial heat and enjoy the tropical magnificence to be felt on every side.

The gavel falls on the Speaker’s table like the blacksmith’s blows on the forge. A muttering silence follows. General Butler has left the Republican side and rolls over to the Democratic. He glances down on the diminutive figure of Aleck Stevens in his rolling chair, pauses a moment as though he were going to speak, apparently changes his mind, passes on, then sinks into a chair with a staunch Democrat on either side.

The semi-silence is broken, and the Honorable Charles Foster, of Ohio, is on his feet. His face is very white, but his black eyes burn like the wolf’s in the cave when it was pursued by General Israel Putnam. No man in the House commands more respect than the one who has the floor. “Hear! hear!” In a moment the House was made to understand that Charley, as usual, had a political panacea to apply to the blistered situation; but his plan is hurled back by Atkins, of Tennessee, and then the struggle to fasten the responsibility of an extra session begins.

Rapidly the hour hand describes the passage which marks the circle lying between 11 o’clock and 12. “Only a moment,” begs Atkins, “to put myself right before the country!” Hale, of Maine, intercedes for a moment in which he “may set the Republican party all right, and fix the responsibility for all the calamities which may follow future Democratic legislation.” Anxious eyes glance at the clock. Only twenty-five minutes left. A voice is heard pleading that the crowd of ladies, composed largely of those who include members in the “family,” be permitted to occupy the floor. Speaker Randall asks if there is any objection. None being raised, in an instant the doors become sluiceways through which pour a flood of feminine humanity. This element spills itself in every direction; sinks into crevices made vacant by retreating forms of members. In vain Speaker Randall asserts “the ladies are not to occupy the chairs within the circle.” The timid ones slink back, but a few charming ones stick, and strange to say the members seem to like it. Conger, of Michigan, beckoned his pretty daughter Florence to a seat beside him. In an instant the vinegar and aggressive spleen disappeared from his countenance, proving that the ugly face he wears in Congress is only a mask. One aged sinner, at least one old enough to know better, slipped his arm around the back of a chair, and though no apparent damage was done it was enough to prove the crookedness of the legislative mind. The flirtations on the floor occupied very little time, and divided the space consumed in receiving messages from the Senate. All at once a tall man rises in the gallery, and says audibly to the people around: “A half dozen men on each side do the business; all the rest are drummers!” After this mercantile speech, the stranger subsides. In the midst of the excitement a burly form is seen entering a doorway, and a face lights up the surroundings as a beacon flame flings its beams far out on a turbulent sea. Haul down the canvas; let go the pumps; it is ex-Secretary Robeson, at last safely beached. Republican sympathy clings to him because he has no money, and thought it his duty to repair our war vessels so long as the port holes showed no signs of decay.

Leaning carelessly back, but in an attitude of inimitable grace stands Joe Blackburn of Kentucky, the “blue grass” boy who will be entered in the coming session for the Speaker’s race. Possessed of remarkable points of physical beauty, few men in Congress in this respect can be called his peers. Tall and slender, made up entirely of bone, nerve and muscle, he seems the embodiment of life’s fiercest forces. The energy of his mind is in keeping with the casket, and his chances for the Speakership at the present time seem best of all.

General Garfield disturbs the stifling air by offering a resolution of thanks to Speaker Randall, who receives it with that becoming modesty he knows so well how to assume. In a voice tremulous with emotion, in a few well chosen words, Honorable Sam. Randall announces his labor and his arduous duties done; and for the last time the gavel descended, the curtain fell, whilst the Forty-fifth Congress entered that silent bourn from whence no traveler returns.

OLIVIA.

A MATRIMONIAL REGISTER.

LIST OF ELIGIBLES OF THE SENATE AND CABINET.

WASHINGTON, _December 24, 1879_.

“They don’t propose! They won’t propose!
For fear perhaps I’d say yes!
Just let ’em try it, for heaven knows
I’m tired of single blessedness!”

At the moment of writing the waters of social life are becalmed in Washington. Very little is doing in matrimonial business and mothers with marriageable daughters are advised to hold on to the stock in hand (unless there is danger of spoiling), as an advance is expected as soon as a batch of single Congressmen arrive, and this interesting event will probably happen soon after the holidays. General Ben Butler is already here, and though he has shed his late Congressional skin and is no longer interesting on this account, he still has the chance to be governor of Massachusetts; but aside from this honor, any respectable matrimonial agency would give him a clean bill of sale the moment the right kind of a purchaser can be found. It is said the gallant General has a “blind eye,” but even with this fact in a woman’s favor it will be necessary to approach him as carefully as though he were gunpowder or an “infernal machine,” and be well prepared for the explosion which would be sure to follow. But it must be remembered that all the valuable things of the earth are obtained at great personal sacrifice and often with loss of life. Just as the biggest pearls are fished from the deepest waters, the greatest men are brought to the right point with a corresponding loss of female vitality.

Senator Sharon! “Lo! the conquering hero comes” on the breath of the wind, at the same time hitched behind a fiery locomotive. He is already done up in broad-cloth and fine linen, and is probably at this hour sleeping in his own “special car” as he rushes over the steel roadway with which dear old Oakes Ames spanned the continent. What a picture of Oriental magnificence, with his almond-eyed, dark-haired daughter at his side! What a flutter among the dames of the grand West End! In his presence a small bore of the Army and Navy, a “swell” of an upper clerk, or even an obscure Congressman pales as the stars are wiped out by the effulgence of a full-blown sun! “But he ain’t handsome!” Shut up, you ill-bred child! Handsome is that handsome does! Didn’t Senator Sharon spend $40,000 on the Grant reception, and owns a house so large that people get lost in it? It takes as long to explore it as it does the Mammoth Cave! “What does he come here for, mamma?” “Why, to show his heathen Chinee, and see if his glass shoe will fit any Cinderella at the capital.” “They pared their heels and they pared their toes,” but the special car goes back to the Pacific slope empty and tenantless, in one sense, as it came. The ripple subsides, to rise at each approach of the “special car,” and so the play goes on.

Senator Booth, of California, is another matrimonial venture worth looking after, but he has already been toughened by several winter campaigns in Washington, until it is declared by those that ought to know that a sigh drawn fresh and pure from the deepest and most capacious female bosom and applied to the right place will have no more effect than a Holman liver pad administered for lockjaw, whilst a glance from the most brilliant eye falls like a sunbeam on an alligator’s back. Managing mammas have given up whist parties on his account, because he is far more “whist” than the count. But the Senator is in a tolerable state of preservation, considering the number of sieges he has endured, and bids fair to return to the sand lots of California no worse for the tender wear and tear to which he has been so cruelly subjected.

If there are any tears to shed, prepare to shed them now! Step softly! blind your eyes! This is Senator Ferry, of Michigan, he who has convulsed the heart of woman, lo! these many years. Mothers have plotted, widows intrigued, girls have cried for him, all to no purpose. It has taken subtle cunning to elude the snares spread for his gentle, trusting being, but Senator Ferry has been equal to the trial and has come out of the fiery flames handsome and jubilant as ever. Whilst the years come and go and at the same time snatch the hairs from his brother Senators’ heads, leaving crowsfeet all along the track, Senator Ferry defies the “Old Man of the Sickle,” and is just as capable of cracking a young girl’s heart to-day as when in the morning of his manly strength, before the stars sang together. As soon as Congress assembles a committee will be appointed to investigate the source of his mighty power, as it is not intended that one red-bearded Senator shall get more than his share. As Senator Ferry usually buys up all newspapers which print advertisements of him, this is intended as a cheap way to get rid of a solid edition of _The Times_, but the article will only call for the usual liberal rate which it pays to its most valued correspondents.

The next names registered on the books of the matrimonial register come under the head of “twins,” and such a pair of twins have never been seen since Gemini and Pollux took their places in the heavens in order to chase the “big bear” around the polar star. Possibly Senators Burnside and Anthony have been condensed into twins, because Rhode Island is too small a State to hold them singly and apart. At one time Senator Burnside came very near scaring off all the girls by wearing a gray night-cap in the daytime, but he immediately rallied and gave a lunch party and explained to the “wee darlin’s” there wasn’t the slightest danger in it. The girls remonstrated, but without avail, until Senator Anthony declared that he wouldn’t be twin to a night-cap, even though it was the color of the side-whiskers, unless the gender could be changed. There is always an incipient battle going on between the two, similar in object and manner as those in which the late Siamese twins indulged, but this is done simply to amuse each other and at the same time keep the thoughts of the female sirens out of their united minds; besides it takes Senator Anthony all his spare time to keep Senator Burnside out of mischief. Since the Senatorial night-cap has been laid aside all sorts of mental eggs have been hatching in his brain, and some time ago one of these eggs turned into an immense black horse and two-wheeled vehicle, adorned by a real tiger skin. This chariot was driven by a Jehu black as the wings of night, and had not Senator Burnside sat by the sable driver the people of the capital would have believed that the whole contrivance was a phantom, such as Washington Irving used to paint with his magic pen. “I told him,” said Charlie Foster, “that he must not drive so fast. That his black beast was a dray horse and not a ‘roadster.’” But the immense black animal, the two black wheels, the sable driver, with the tiger skin flying, thundered up and down the Avenue, a target for the witty Stilson Hutchins, whose paragraphs on the subject were looked for in the _Post_ with keener relish than the most aromatic coffee. Thin-skinned Anthony could stand it no longer and the black horse disappeared from Congressional history. It has never been ascertained whether it was a real horse or one of those uncanny creations “conjured” by means of the “black art,” but as everything about it was black and all in the highest style of art, it is safe to pronounce it black art until a better word can be invented. Just as long as Senator Burnside is in the Senate Senator Anthony will have his hands full. In the meantime matrimonial schemes will be laid over as unfinished business, and this is peculiarly trying, for the loss to some fair woman in not being allowed to cling to Senator Anthony is more painful than pen can describe.

As altogether too much space of this valuable paper has been given to the irreclaimable old single-tops of the Senate, it is high time the gay and festive “House” should be reached; but, alas! if this is done, the “catchables” of the Cabinet will be overlooked, and what will Mrs. Hayes say? The writer knows very little about General Devens, but it has been ascertained that he was not imported from England, but belongs to an entirely different breed, whilst President Hayes claims all the honor of original discovery. At any rate, it is well known that he was picked up on the codfish shores of Massachusetts in a remarkable state of preservation. General Devens is blue-blooded to the last degree, and it is claimed that a large portion of the fluid that runs in his veins was imported in the _Mayflower_, and this accounts for the small quantity of it. Whilst there is enough for all Cabinet purposes and to occasionally amuse Mrs. Hayes, the illuminating power seems to require some such tinker as the hero of Menlo Park to bring it to the required point of perfection. Like Edison’s electric light, though it “shines,” there is very little heat, and a girl complains that in his presence she always has a cold nose, but it is declared that he shall not go out of the Cabinet on this account, and the probabilities are that he has come to stay.

Listen to the mocking-bird! Trills, quavers, semi-quavers, demi-semi-quavers, a flute, a flageolet, a dulcimer! It is only the voice of Carl Schurz, but it is a whole opera concealed in his throat. Creation has contrived a few voices whose intonation in speech is the highest and most triumphant music. Such sounds come out of the mouth of a shell. It is heard in the patter of a fairy cascade. It is the hissing ring of the rain as it kisses the bosom of the dimpled deep. Nature’s pure, sweet, unadulterated chimes--not spoiled by “foreign master” or any other training. Born in a castle, the son of a gamekeeper; half aristocrat, half peasant; haughty as a king; humble as the lowliest who seek his favor; least understood because his intellect includes both large and small gifts culled from the whole vast domain which governs the law of humanity--daughters admire him, mothers fear him, fathers hate him. Why? Because he is not only a man, but somewhat more! During office hours he attends to business precisely like other Cabinet officers, with even more accuracy and attention, but, his work done, the uncanny orgie begins. He has the power to draw the most weird and unearthly music out of his piano. The yells of the cats before they were made into “strings” are revived with added ferocity. All the sounds of nature are imitated. He is never weary and never lies down, but he has been seen to uncoil, throw his head back, open his lips and show his white, glistening fangs. Then somebody is sure to get hurt. When Mother Nature begins to pull the string to let down the curtain of night, a dark, slender horse, bearing upon its back a tall, sinuous form, may be seen flying in a northeasterly direction. Nothing more solemn and ghoul-like can be imagined. To the awful northeast lies “Edgewood,” most sentimental of earthly pilgrimages. Cemeteries here and there blot the highway. The lonely road stretches on, unlit by flash except a “Jack o’ lantern,” which leads the way for the dark horse of the smoking flank. Once Senator Conkling was taking an airing in this direction for his poor health’s sake and met the “horseman.” It was more than his nerves could bear. Edgewood is now deserted, the cemeteries are all quiet, and the “vision” is left to its own mad career. Any woman who meditates “designs” on Carl Schurz should first cultivate a love for sulphur and practice with an electric battery every day.

The House may safely be called an ocean of matrimonial possibilities. When mothers say “there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught,” they have direct reference to the House, the lurking-place of so much that is sweet, shy and forbidding. Here, at almost any hour of the Congressional day, may be seen “sporting” a whole shoal of bachelor Greenbackers; but their backs are no more green than their fellow members, unless the verdant tint may be noticed with which all Congressmen are more or less afflicted. Here bachelor Le Fevre spouts like a great sperm whale; and one speculates on the quantity of oil he would “turn out,” and feels sad to think he was not discovered before the coal oil regions, for in that case he would have proved of vast service to the world. At present he is ostensibly engaged in storming the departments to find places for his constituents, but the real truth shows that he is only exhibiting his handsome person to the Treasury girls as a target, and each one is allowed a given number of shots at the mark. As the space allotted by _The Times_ to its most valued correspondents has been filled to the brim and just a little slopped over, it is announced that the next article will take up dear, precious Charley O’Neill. It will treat of the sentimental damage wrought at the capital by this “broth of a boy,” for if all his “doin’s” could be made visible to mortal eye, the old Keystone State would blot out the memory of its late Centennial glory and at the same time give General Grant a rest.

OLIVIA.

BACHELORS AND WIDOWERS.

CONGRESSMEN SPEER, CLYMER, ACKLEY AND O’NEILL.

WASHINGTON, _January 15, 1880_.

“Birdie, oh, come and live with me;
You shall be happy--you shall be free.”

Contrary to all precedents of the past, the coming of Congress has had little or no effect on the matrimonial market, although it is confidently believed that Charley O’Neill is holding a vast amount of “stock.” Notwithstanding the danger and difficulties of carrying this weight, he has decided to enact the role of the immortal Don Quixote, and has already planted the banner of his famous predecessor on the soil of the capital of the New World. But lest Philadelphia take umbrage at this unnatural exploit, as it looks like spurning the city of his beloved soul, he wishes it understood that had he fixed Philadelphia as a starting-point he would have been confined by the meshes of the Camerons, whereas Washington, being the centre of civilization, offers facilities that cannot be breached until the farthest limit of the whole country is reached. As matters now stand, there isn’t a maid or widow at the capital whose heart is not pit-a-pat, and even married women are providing against a morning of storm which might close in perpetual sunshine. Already the first celebrated battle has been fought, and contrary to the usage of ancient chivalry. But as this is a different age, and bottom side the globe as to Spain, it must not be expected that ancient rules will be followed. When Charley O’Neill attacked the windmills the other day in the House it was found that he had hit Sam Randall in disguise. When he learned that he had got the wrong pig by the ear, he soon scattered his forces and comforted himself by thinking, if he had not destroyed a windmill of which Philadelphia would be well glad to be rid, the skirmish at least had been fought in the “Cave of the Winds,” and if not up to the standard of “knight errantry,” had sufficient of the Quixotic flavor to answer every modern purpose. For the present he has decided to save the expense of a “Squire,” unless Congress will make an appropriation. Besides, Sancho Panza would be in the way if he were the true metal of the Spanish sort. But to remove this difficulty a private secretary has been found who will open his tender missives; escort distressed damsels to the theatre; gorge himself at “society lunches,” and sigh like a “lying trooper” when the proper parties are around. Charley O’Neill wants Philadelphia to know that most of his mischief is performed by proxy, and when he returns he will be none the worse for wear. On account of the slippery pavements he will not be provided with a “Rosinante,” but not to disappoint his constituents he has determined to get upon his “high horse” on the floor of Congress whenever a pestiferous Democrat shows his hand. A magnificent belle of the “West End” has offered him a plume for his hat, but he disdains such marks of frivolity and declares that he will appear only in the simple armor of an American citizen. This consists of a clean white shirt, a neat broad-cloth coat--which under no circumstances can be “swallow-tail”--Wanamaker pantaloons and patent-leathers. The hat--a soft felt hat--capable of almost any expression. When he enters the Capitol in this harmless disguise the sensation would be indescribable if the attention was not divided by the roar of Kelley, he who has played the role of lion ever since his celebrated interview with Bismarck, which settled the bi-metallic squabble in both hemispheres.